


They Shall Have Stars

by grumkin_snark



Series: And They Lived... [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU - Secret Garden fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: There is a tower deep in the Red Mountains that only blooms when lovers’ souls it finds.





	They Shall Have Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crossingwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/gifts).



**** **i.**

When Father dies, so does Mother. Not in body; the Stranger himself would have to pry her from the earth for that. But before, although Mother was stern and overbearing, there was a light that shone out whenever Father was close. Glimpses were all she ever got, peeking around a column or spying out a window, but glimpses were enough.

Father would pull Mother onto his lap, meticulously unwind her thick hair from its binds, kiss her forehead. Sometimes, they’d sit and play tiles for hours, and when Father lost—he always lost—she would give him a wide smile and tease, _Twenty-five years we’ve been wed, my love, and you’re still as awful as the day we met._

In public, it was always _my consort_ or _Prince Trystane_ , but in private, she never even used his name, only _my love_. Father didn’t care so much for honorifics, he always called her Loree regardless of where they were, and despite silently admonishing him when they were in court, Elia could tell she didn’t really mean it. Father saw a side of her no one else did, and sometimes that was all that kept Elia from raging when her mother would isolate her during a bout of sickness.

Then the fever takes him.

As soon as the funeral concludes, Doran returns to Salt Shore, but even that isn’t unusual; her brother is scarce more than a stranger, so little is he home. And then Mother declares, “I’m sending you and Oberyn away.”

Her voice is brittle these days, leaving behind a sense of pinprickles, like the ground could shatter at any moment. “Away?”

“Yes. Lord and Lady Dayne have agreed to foster the both of you for a while.” _That_ comes as a shock. She’s never been allowed anywhere further than the Water Gardens, let alone all the way across Dorne.

“Starfall?” she asks. “But— _why_? I don’t know anyone there. Oberyn neither.”

For a moment, she thinks Mother will actually give her a real reason, but then she purses her lips and Elia knows it’s over. “Don’t argue with me. You’re going, and that’s the end of it.”

It’s because of Father, she knows it is, but Mother is too bloody prideful to show an ounce of weakness. _I loved Father, too_ , she thinks viciously. _You don’t get to be the only one to mourn him._

But there’s naught to do but comply, and so she goes.

**ii.**

Starfall isn’t so bad. The smell of sea salt is tempered by the wrathful freshwater of the Torrentine, but the Palestone Sword reminds her of the Spear Tower, the sunsets are like nothing she’s ever seen, and although Lord Dayne is even more terse than Mother, she likes Lady Arynna just fine.

For all that, what with Oberyn disappearing more often than not with one of the serving girls, it would be lonely were it not for Ashara. Starfall was once the palace of kings, a son of theirs the consort of Princess Nymeria herself, but everyone she meets sees her only as Princess Loreza’s daughter, second-in-line to the rulership of Dorne. Except Ashara, whom she only has to ask once to stop adding _princess_ to her name, and from then on she is only Elia.

She figures out quickly enough that grief must have been just one of the motives Mother had for sending them here, for she begins to be peppered with questions about Oberyn, what sort of person he is, what he would like to become.

“They want to betroth you and my brother,” she tells Ashara. They sit atop the Sword, dangling their legs through the gaps in the balustrade and gazing out at the endless expanse of blue.

“I know,” says Ashara glumly. Seeing Elia’s raised eyebrow, she clarifies, “I like Oberyn! But I—I want to go out on my own. I don’t know for what, I just want something more. More than just being the lady of a castle, just… _more_.”

“What would you do?”

“I don’t know,” says Ashara with a bright gleam in her eyes. “And that’s the best part, isn’t it?”

**iii.**

Ashara has two elder brothers, though with the younger being fostered at Sandstone, she’s only met the older so far. Allem Dayne has the disposition of his father, as contrary to Ashara as the Frostfangs to the Summer Islands. He is more ordinary in appearance, with a square jaw, lean frame, and eyes more blue than purple, and to Oberyn’s dismay he thinks little and less of martial pursuits.

She hadn’t even noticed he was in Starfall in the beginning, so frequently was he secluded in his chambers or the library. She finds out that he is a master at sums and memorization, able to work out computations so quickly it makes her head spin and remember passages of text he’d only read once. It would make him a dutiful Lord of Starfall one day, without doubt, though she's not sure his future wife would be quite as thrilled.

It is when Lord Geraint calls her into his solar that it occurs to her mayhaps this visit was never about Oberyn at all. Sharp as cut crystal, he asks, “What do you think of my son?”

She thinks of what Ashara had said— _I want more_ —and can manage only a weak smile.

“What _do_ you think of Allem?” Ashara asks her later.

“He is very…learned.”

Ashara lets out a snicker. “You sound like Arthur.”

“ _Speaking_ of Arthur,” Elia asks, anxious to get away from the subject of betrothals, “when do I get to meet him? You talk about him so often I feel like I know him.”

Ashara’s good humor droops. “He loves Starfall, truly he does, but Father and Allem…the three of them have never been on the same page, not once. It makes it hard for him, coming back. I know Mother is anxious to see him, though, so he should return before long.”

**iv.**

Even on her worst days, the Daynes do not coop her up the way Mother had, and in turn, exploring has become a treasured hobby. No matter how much she searches, there always seems to be something new to stumble upon, some previously unnoticed passageway or carving. The Sword Hall is one of her favorite places, it being where the Daynes’ legacy is kept along with the ancient iron crown of the Kings of the Torrentine and other relics from the past. The artifacts hang along the walls and there at the end, seemingly alive with its own white glow, Dawn.

It is one such night when she discovers that she is not alone.

A shadowed figure stands in front of the sword, staring at it with the sort of scrutiny Allem does with numbers. Her mother’s propriety would have her leave before she’s seen, but she was born with more than a healthy dose of Father’s curiosity, so instead she steps into a beam of moonlight that streams through the stained glass windows.

“Hello,” she greets.

The boy startles, so caught up had he been in his brooding. He’s older than Ashara, but with the same purple eyes and black hair, alongside a handsomeness and brawn that his brother lacks.

“Erm…hello.” He looks her up and down, then recognition sets in. “You’re Elia Martell, aren’t you? I’m Arthur.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” She holds out her hand for him to kiss, where his lips linger just a shade too long.

**v.**

“I’m sorry, teach me to _what_?”

“Use a sword. What sort of princess can’t?”

“The _normal_ sort.” She’s no stranger to arms, having watched Oberyn and the other boys at Sunspear whack each other with tourney swords since they could walk, but she hadn’t bothered learning to use one herself. Even if she’d wanted to, Mother would never have allowed it.

“It’s just a little one.”

It is, to be fair, of a far more manageable size and weight than the greatsword he practices with. No one is under any illusions as to _why_  Arthur practices with it, and yet still his father has made no mention of bequeathing Dawn to him. She’s fairly certain even Allem, who gets along with Arthur less than oil with water, is somewhat perplexed. Ashara had told her he was knighted at just fifteen, that he’s won every tourney he’s entered, and that at one of them he’d even struck up a friendship with the crown prince himself.

“Arthur said he’s polite,” Ashara had indulged in her once, “but drearier than Allem, and King’s Landing is more insufferable than Highgarden.”

Elia was glad to hear it. She doesn’t know Arthur that well yet, and he’s not quite as vivacious as Ashara, but he’s exceedingly kind and he treats her like a real person: not a princess, not a weakling, just _her_. And _fine_ , mayhaps her heart had stuttered the first time he’d smiled up at her during a sparring session with Oberyn, and _fine_ , mayhaps she doesn’t complain when the heat prompts him to practice with neither tunic nor armor to cover him, but neither does Ashara when Oberyn does, so.

“Very well,” Elia relents, warily appraising the weapon in her hand. “I still don’t know what purpose I’m supposed to get out of it.”

As soon as she takes her stance, Arthur erupts in laughter. “Not that way. Like this.”

He moves her into the proper position, explaining what and why to her as he goes, but he may as well be speaking Ghiscari. All she can concentrate on is the warmth of his hands on her hips, the firmness of his body behind her, the deepness of his voice in her ear. She kicks herself for it—he’s Ashara’s _brother_ , the _wrong_ brother—but she can’t stop it.

Their sessions continue, and although she doesn’t think she’s getting any better, nevertheless she persists. After one particularly intricate lesson, she makes her way down to the shore with him, every muscle smarting, and they watch the Palestone Sword’s beacon illuminate the ocean for miles.

“What’s that tower in the Prince’s Pass?” she asks him. “I saw it on a map in the Sword Hall, but I’ve never seen it anywhere else.”

“Not much _to_ see. It’s more tall tale than history now,” he shrugs. “I can take you there, though, if you want.”

“If it’s no trouble. I think I should like that.”

His smile is soft. “As my princess commands.”

**vi.**

True to his word, the following day they saddle their horses and make the trek north through the pass. It’s farther than Elia had thought, but she welcomes the crisp mountain air, Chroya’s gait smooth beneath her. Were it not for Arthur leading, she’d have missed the entrance entirely, a thin road branching off from the main pass that seems to disappear into nothing until they round the bend and the tower comes into view.

Climbing roses ensnare up the sides, but all are dead or near enough, nothing but shriveled vines and blackened petals. Beds of wildflowers around the base are overrun with weeds and half-suffocated in sand from storms that broached the mountains. Lichen has crept within the stones themselves, pockmarking the white structure with greenish-gray welts. A well sits a distance away, though like everything else it too is decrepit. Yet even so, it’s easy to see how once upon a time this must have been beautiful, a haven tucked away from the world.

She runs her hand along the crumbling wall as she ascends the spiral steps. “What happened?”

“Disuse, mostly. Craftsmen come up now and then to try and restore it, but it never lasts.”

The room at the top of the tower is much the same as the outside: quaint once, ugly now. Dust smothers the floor, a tapestry on the wall is faded beyond recognition, abandoned spiderwebs lurk in the corners. There are half a dozen books on an old table, but when she goes to pick one up, its binding falls apart, the pages like broken leaves in her hands.

“What did it used to be?”

“A lovers’ hideaway, a long, long time ago,” says Arthur. “No one remembers their names anymore, only that one of them was a Dayne and the other wed against her will to a marcher lord. A monstrous one, but I suppose the stories would say that. The lady appealed to her lord husband to break off their marriage, but he refused, and so one evening her knight stole her away and they came here. He built the tower himself, just waiting for the day it would be finished and he could rescue her. The marcher lord sent search parties for a decade, even threatened war half a hundred times, but they were never found. It’s said that the knight had put so much of himself into the land that the tower would be forever hidden from those who would wish ill upon its occupants.” Arthur snorts. “More like marchers couldn’t navigate Dorne if their lives depended on it.”

“Don’t ruin it,” she says, swatting him on the shoulder. “So what happened to them?”

“Whatever their end, it’s been lost,” he says. “Some say they wed and made the tower their home, others that the marcher lord eventually caught up to them and killed them both. Some say they never existed at all. No one really knows.”

“So will the tower never be what it once was?”

Arthur glances at her sideways, suddenly uncomfortable. “So far as the singers are concerned, the tower thrives only for those whose love is as pure as the knight and his lady’s.”

“Oh,” Elia blushes. “Well, singers are always wrong anyway. Probably the workers that came up here weren’t dedicated enough. Father taught me a bit about gardens, and you know the mountains better than I do, so maybe we can at least tidy it up some?”

Arthur’s gaze is more intense than usual, but his easy smile is the same as ever. “May as well.”

**vii.**

She doesn’t realize it until they’re well into their work, but she hasn’t felt so much as winded ever since that first trip they’d taken. It’s the clearer air, she decides, but nevertheless it feels like something else, too, something she can’t name. At first, Arthur had assisted her with the flowers but had proved woefully unhelpful, so she sent him to repair the tower and its outbuildings instead.

The flowers are more difficult than she’d expected, the weeds’ roots spanning not only beneath the plants themselves, but into the sand and rocks around them. But now that she has a goal, she refuses to be beaten, and she eliminates them all in due course. Most of the flowers have succumbed to either neglect or exposure, leaving her with next to nothing, and the climbing roses are in even worse shape.

She’s a little nervous to ask Lady Arynna if there are any seeds she can use, but the woman merely directs her to Starfall’s own stores. “If anyone can make that old tower bloom, it’s you,” she says, kissing Elia on the cheek. “You are a blessing, my dear girl. Don’t let anyone tell you different.”

And bloom it does. Elia squeals in excitement the day she discovers the first of the little shoots, and is downright exhilarated when she sees new buds form on the vines where old ones had perished. In the back of her mind is Arthur’s statement about the singers and that like as not Elia’s hard work would die sooner or later, but for now at least, she’ll take pride in it.

Ashara helps too, and occasionally Oberyn. Ashara takes over control of the tower’s interior, sweeping away the grime, scrubbing the windows, and replacing the tapestry with one depicting the first Dayne standing in the middle of Starfall’s island as his heartstone builds up the castle around him. The books she replaces with old favorites, _Ten Thousand Ships_ and _The Loves of Princess Nymeria_ , _Desert Nights_ and _The Dragon’s Tears_. Elia offers a cherished book of poetry her father had written—not _good_ poetry, it must be said—and anecdotes from her grandmother about the rulership of Dorne.

(Oberyn offers books with… _creative_ illustrations.)

The well takes the most time, at first to identify why it has run dry, then to figure out how to descend to the bottom safely, and then to clear out all the rocks and dirt that prevent its flow. Ultimately, with more than a few choice curses from them all, the stoppage is fixed and the pulley mended. After several bucketsful of muddied water, it runs clean.

The stables require everyone to adjust the beams and exchange the nails, and they decide after a while there’s little to be done about the cracked marble columns that used to surround the courtyard, but Ashara proclaims it adds character to the place.

“Now,” says Elia proudly, “we just have to wait.”

While Oberyn and Ashara engage in their daily bickering standoff, Arthur plucks a marigold from the flowerbed. Their fingers brush as he holds it out to her, and for half a second her gaze drops to his lips.

He doesn’t linger to let her thank him, but his touch never leaves.

**viii.**

She doesn’t get to enjoy the tower for long. Mere weeks after they’ve finished, a raven arrives from Mother, dictating that unless the Daynes have settled on a betrothal, Elia would be taken on a trip to find other prospects. She’d heard that Lord Geraint was in favor of the union, but somehow, it doesn’t materialize.

Elia hadn’t thought anyone could convince the Lord of Starfall out of a decision, but it seems she’d underestimated his wife. Peeling half a blood orange, Lady Arynna says wryly, “I love my son, but not for you.”

She’s thankful for it, and even tries to tell her mother that _she_ wants to choose a husband—if in fact there is to be a husband at all—but her efforts fall on deaf ears. And so she travels, far from home with Oberyn in tow to Oldtown, the Arbor, the Shield Islands, Crakehall, and lastly Casterly Rock. She grows weaker with each passing day, her old pains returning with a vengeance, pallor dulling her skin.

“Maybe the Rock will have a garden,” Oberyn suggests as the colossal coastal fortress looms ahead.

“Maybe.”

And it might. But it’s not enough to rid her mind of the rumors that the Lannisters have entire prides of lions kept just this side of starving that lurk in the bowels of the cliffside, and that ghosts of the Reynes that Lord Tywin had murdered prowl the halls in eternal torment. She considers little Jaime, nine years her junior, not old enough to be a squire.

_He deserves someone his own age_ , she laments, _and I a man of mine._

But she sees the pleased expressions on her mother’s and Lady Joanna’s faces, and her heart beats faster than a caged hummingbird.

**ix.**

“You should see it,” is the first thing Arthur says to her when she disembarks at Starfall’s port.

Despite the maelstrom of panic that’s churned her stomach ever since the Rock, she feels her spirit lighten. “It hasn’t gone?”

“No, just the opposite.”

She can smell the tower before she sees it, scents from a thousand and one flowers and grasses, and when they crest the hill, her anxieties ebb. The tower is better than she recalls, the Water Gardens in miniature. She all but runs around the structures, letting them fortify her. They retire to the balcony, still as meticulously polished as it was when Elia had left, a shared bottle of strongwine between them. Sunset casts the mountains in colorful shadow, and more than ever she wishes she could remain here.

“I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

“I have.” Startled, she turns to look at Arthur, who gently tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I missed you.”

She can’t move, paralyzed by his closeness, the way his violet eyes seem to burn in the dying sun. “I missed you, too.”

She has. _Gods_ , has she. It hits her like whitewater in the Torrentine, here on the terrace of the tower that awakened the minute they stepped onto its sands. Mayhaps the singers were right, mayhaps it hadn’t bloomed because she’d dug out the weeds and he the well, mayhaps it was because of _them_. Mayhaps it knew her soul better than she did.

With not a moment’s hesitation, she leans forward and kisses him. His lips are soft, his hands rough, all of him hers to devour. She can feel his own desire, in how he grips her waist and the hunger with which he responds. It isn’t until the sun has long since dipped below the horizon that he pulls away and rests his forehead against hers.

So quiet she can barely hear him, he whispers, “Don’t marry Jaime Lannister.”

“What?”

“It’s not what you want. I know it isn’t, and I…I couldn’t bear it.”

Her voice is half a cry. “You act as if I have a _choice_. Mother wouldn’t let a betrothal opportunity like this go if I begged her on my knees.”

“She might, if there were another option.”

“Another option?”

He swallows. “Elia, I have loved you.”

“I…” She feels quite like all the air has left her lungs. “Are you asking me to marry you?”

“I know I’m only a second son,” he says hurriedly, “but I’m my brother’s heir, and Mother said she thinks Father’s finally decided to name me the Sword of the Morning, and Ser Davos Dayne was _third_ in line and still Princess Nymeria chose him to wed—”

She puts her fingers over his lips to stop him. “Arthur, shut up. I don’t care about that.” Happiness and amazement rise within her. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes, I mean it. I’ve wanted to marry you since the first night I saw you.”

Gods help her, she believes him. Between her health and her mother, she never thought she’d have this, and _yet_.

When she kisses him, it feels like hope.

**x.**

Somehow, Lady Arynna knows, even before they tell her. She glances from one of them to the other and says simply, “Yes.”

Mother is a different beast entirely, and for days Elia frets on how to approach it. She wouldn’t be surprised if Mother’s already begun to commission dressmakers to sew a wardrobe of scarlet and gold. But they’re due to depart Starfall in less than a week, and if she doesn’t tell her now, everything will be for naught.

She suggests that while they’re in the area, it would be a swell idea to visit Father’s family in Kingsgrave, and Mother agrees. Elia does have every intention of doing so, for she hasn’t seen her cousins in ages, but first—

“I want to show you something,” she says as they come upon the hidden road. “It’ll be quick.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Mother follows her, and Elia prays to the spirits of the knight and his lady to give her strength. “It’s been a Dayne holding since it was erected,” Elia explains. “There’s a whole legend behind it.”

Once they dismount, Elia leads her to where the flowers spring up at the base of the tower and the climbing roses vein the pale stones. Mother slows as she assesses it all; Elia could swear something in her face gentles.

“See these ones?” she says quickly, pointing to a swath of bright indigo. “They’re like Father’s, remember?”

Mother crouches down, her fingers delicately brushing the rounded petals. “I remember,” she murmurs. “Mountain bellflowers were Trystane’s favorite. They can’t grow by the sea, but by all seven hells did he try.”

She delays until she can delay no longer. “Mother, I don’t want to be Lady Lannister.”

“Excuse me?”

“I belong in Dorne,” she pleads. “I want freedom. I want a man of _my_ choosing. You married Father for love, why can’t I do the same?”

“I have ambitions for you, Elia.”

“I have ambitions for me, too,” she says, “and they’re not about stupid titles. Look, just—” She gestures to the whole of the tower, the well and the courtyard and the stables. “This place was dead when Arthur first brought me here. But it started blooming as soon as we drew near, and ever since, not a single flower has wilted and the only time I’ve felt any aches was when I left the shores of Dorne. There’s _magic_ here.”

“Darling, magic isn’t _real_.”

“Yes it is. What do you think love is?” she persists. “Of all the people in the world, you and Father _happened_ to find each other? Doran _happened_ to find Lady Mellario? If that isn’t magic, then what is? Father used to tell me that the best things come out of the worst circumstances. Well, maybe I’d have never met Arthur if you hadn’t sent me away. Maybe this is the good out of the bad. You know Father wouldn’t want me to marry Jaime, you _know it_. Not if there was a boy I loved instead.”

Mother gazes once more at the blue bellflowers. “No,” she allows, “he wouldn’t.”

“I won’t shame you,” Elia says as she grabs her mother’s hands. “Arthur won’t either. He wouldn’t even make me give up my place in succession like a northerner would. I’d have princes and princesses, not just lords or ladies. Only a Targaryen could say the same, and Prince Rhaegar will be betrothed as soon as the queen has a daughter or some suitable Lysene girl is found. Arthur’s a good man, Mother.”

“I could refuse.”

“I could run away.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Then don’t be cruel.” She hadn’t meant it to come out quite so harshly. The past two years of living with sharp-tongued Ashara appear to have rubbed off on her.

“I’ve always said you’re just like your father,” Mother sighs. “But you’re your mother’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“I am. And forcing me to marry Jaime won’t change that. Forcing me to marry him won’t do anything except make me miserable.”

“You’ll entertain the idea of _no one_ else? Arthur is what you want?”

“He’s _all_ I want.”

Mother is silent for minutes on end; the very tower itself seems to hold its breath.

She places a hand on Elia’s cheek, and when finally she speaks, her voice is soft as sunlight off the mountains. “Then it seems I owe Joanna a letter.”


End file.
